Misrepresentative Women Part 5

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_Small wonder she receives a shock each time she views thy billyc.o.c.k_"

"_Lochinvar_"

(WITH APOLOGIES TO SCOTT AND SWINBURNE)

When the shadow-shapes shone like a shaddock, Where the sunset had kissed them to flame, On his palfrey, the pick of the paddock, With his sword in its scabbard, he came!

In the glamour of amorous pa.s.sion He would blaze like a seasoned cigar; And he fought in a similar fas.h.i.+on, Did Young Lochinvar!

By the fences and fens unaffrighted, And unstopt by the stream in its spate, In a lather, at last, he alighted, And he knocked at the Netherbys' gate.

'Twas too late! (As he doubtless had dreaded.) He perceived his particular "star"

To a blackguard about to be wedded, Did Young Lochinvar!

But he pa.s.sed through the portal so proudly To the room where the gifts were displayed, That old Netherby called to him loudly (For the bridegroom, poor fool, was afraid).

"Is it blood you are bent upon shedding?

With a murder this marriage to mar?

Or to waltz do you wish at the wedding, My Young Lochinvar?"

He replied, "Tho' 'twere useless to smother My love for the maid at your side; Tho' my Helen be bound to another, I shall trust to the turn of the tied.

As I drink to her squint and her freckles, I'll remark how few ladies there are Who would shrink from a share of the shekels Of Young Lochinvar."

Then he pledged her in port, so politely (Tho' her mother lamented his taste), And she smiled at him ever so slightly, As he settled his arm round her waist.

When he drew her direct to the dancers, The Bohemian band struck a bar, And she found herself leading the Lancers With Young Lochinvar!

Oh, the beauty and grace are so vivid Of this perfectly parallel pair, That the parents grow purple and livid, And the bridegroom is tearing his hair; While the bridesmaids talk ten to the dozen, Saying: "Goodness, what gabies we are, Not to marry our exquisite cousin To Young Lochinvar!"

Then the girl by her partner is beckoned To the door, where a charger they find; To the saddle he springs in a second, And he lifts her up lightly behind; "She is mine!" he announces, adjourning To the distant horizon afar, "Till the cattle to roost are returning!"[3]

Says Young Lochinvar.

O the tumult! The tumbling of tables!

O the stress of the scene that succeeds!

O the stir on the stairs,--in the stables!

O the stamping and saddling of steeds!

But the bride has eluded them surely; In the room of some kind Registrar, She is now being wedded securely To Young Lochinvar!

[3] "Till the cows come home": an old English saying, denoting eternity.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'_She is mine!' he announces, adjourning To the distant horizon afar_"

_Abbreviation's Artful Aid_

The Bard, at times Is stumped for rhymes, Without the least excuse.

He can defy Such moments by Abbreviation's use, And gain the grat: Of friend or neighb: Without an at: Of extra lab:

So simp: a rule May seem pecul: And make the crit: indig: What matter if The scans: is diff: The meaning too ambig:?

The net result, Lacon: and punct: Is worth a mult: Of needless unct:

We long for sile: From folks who pile Their worldly Pel: on Oss: Extremely nox: And quite intox: By their exhub: verbos: We curse their imp: In manner dras: And fail to symp: With their loquac:

In House of Rep: Applause is tep: For periphrastic Pol: Reviewers sniff At auth: prolif: With semiannual vol: But we can pard: However peev: The minor bard Who will abbrev:

With pen and ink In close propinq: The Poet, lucky fell:!

Avoiding troub: May give his pub: The cred: for some intell: And like an orph: In pose rec.u.mb: In arms of Morph: Securely slumb:

Let corks explode: With brand: and sod: Ye wearers of the mot:!

Decant the cham: (What matt: the dam:?) And empt: the flowing bott:!

And ne'er surren: The Laureate's palm, His haunch of ven: And b.u.t.t of Malm:!

_Author's Aftword_

How I have labored, night and day, Just like the hero of a novel, To drive the hungry wolf away From my baronial hovel, To keep the bailiffs from my home, By finis.h.i.+ng this bulky tome.

To such a trying mental strain My intellect is far from fitted, Tho' if I had an ounce more brain I should be quite half-witted, And when I wander in my mind I am most difficult to find.

The sort of life for which I care Is one combining Peace and Plenty With _laisser aller_, _laisser faire_, And _dolce far niente_.

(The heart of ev'ry Bridge-fiend jumps: _Dolce_ ... 'tis sweet to make "No Trumps.")

I shrink from work in any shape,-- Too clearly do these pages show it,-- But work is what one can't escape And be a Minor Poet; And critics I may well defy To find a minor bard than I.

I ought to live out 'Frisco way, Where working is considered silly, As Greeley (Horace) used to say,-- Or was it Collier (Willie)?-- "Go West, young man" (I understand), "Go West and blow up with the land!"

Were I as full of zeal and fun As Balzac, who could drudge so gaily, Or diligent as Peter Dunne, I might accomplish daily An ode of Pleasure or of Pa.s.sion In Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x fas.h.i.+on;

But, as it is, I sit and toil, Consuming time and ink and curses And pints of precious midnight oil To perpetrate these verses.

If _writing_ them be dull indeed, Alas! what must they be to _read_!